


Like a Fine Wine

by pamdizzle



Series: Dreams of Lace and Satin [12]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: 10 years down the road, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Image, Established Relationship, Fluff, Future Fic, Gotham Recs - Gift Exchange Summer 2018, Healthy Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurities, Lingerie, M/M, Oswald needs a hug, Smut, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 13:34:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15220241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pamdizzle/pseuds/pamdizzle
Summary: Flash forward 10 years. Oswald struggles with his weight.Or, That time where Oswald thinks his sexy days are over, and Jim proves him wrong.This one is for Gobblepotstew who I received in the gift exchange. I hope this meets some of your Gobblepot needs.





	Like a Fine Wine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gobblepotstew](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gobblepotstew/gifts).



The realization doesn’t blindside him, so much as make reality unavoidable. Oswald was already forced, not too long ago, to send his favorite articles from his wardrobe to the tailor in order to have them let out a bit. He’s well aware that he is thirty pounds heavier than he was just a few years ago.

It’s just…

His suits are bespoke, designed to fit exactly. Having them taken in or let out once or twice is expected if they remain fashionable. Oswald is sure he can lose the weight, it’s just a change in his metabolism. Or, that had been what he’d told himself at the time. It certainly hadn’t upset him the way this latest development does:

None of his panties, already the largest size in his catalogue, fit right.

He’s tried on everything from his one-piece elastic body suits to his bikini thongs, all with the same results. They’re all too tight, the lace and elastic stressed as it valiantly tries to cover his generous backside. He can’t even squeeze into the satin pieces for fear of tearing them to shreds.

Didn’t he wear this camisole just last week? He doesn’t recall it being so confining or drawing so much attention to his love handles. He takes in the pink lace material, the floral pattern obscured to the point of indiscernible where it fights to contain his hips, and sighs defeatedly. He feels bloated, looks even larger in all the places where the seams dig painfully into his soft flesh. His chest aches with disappointment and no small amount of shame as he fights to peel them off, unable to withstand it a second longer.

Oswald is certain he’s never felt so unattractive as this, keenly aware of every single inch of his body. Crestfallen, he tugs on a pair of lose-fitting silk boxers and limps toward the closet. He dons his suit, shoves his feet into his socks and shoes, then stands before the mirror once more as he pulls on his gloves.

At least his jacket and trousers obscure the expansion of his waistline somewhat. Perhaps he should consider investing in some cummerbunds. Or, he regards himself with a frown, he should invest in a gym membership and a nutritionist.

Oswald straightens his shoulders and makes a vow. He is going to turn this around before it truly gets out of hand. He will begin a new diet, effective immediately, and make an effort to exercise regularly.

He’ll be back to his old form in no time.

***

In making this new resolution, Oswald overlooks just one thing.

Jim stops by the casino on his way home, as he does every so often, and the man is scarcely through the door before he’s got Oswald pressed up against the other side of it. His mouth, accompanied by that horrid mustache he’s taken to maintaining, is at Oswald’s throat, sucking and teasing his blood to the surface.

He can’t help but notice, when Jim pulls away to get at Oswald’s fly, that the man has aged quite well so far. Much better than Oswald, certainly. Jim’s hair is a little thinner maybe, the gray at his sideburns just a dusting, but still soft and attractive where it falls over the lines of his forehead.

There’s crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, more noticeable now but lending a distinguished quality to his features. They deepen the blue of his irises, lending a certain warmth to his hard-jawed features. His resting expression is relaxed, rather than wary. Even with that damnable mustache, Jim’s face is inviting. He’s still so damned handsome.

And his body, where it pushes up against Oswald, is so much leaner than his own. Jim has to stay in fighting form, even if he’s chasing Gotham’s criminals through the street only half as often these days. Jim could still have anyone he chose, is the point.

Suddenly, Oswald is uncomfortable being undressed beside him. Which, he knows is illogical. Jim is the one that barged in and pushed Oswald up against the wall. He’s the one doing all the mauling. Maybe it’s that he sees Oswald everyday and that’s why he hasn’t noticed how unattractive his husband has become.

Oswald reaches over and swats at the light switch.

“What—”

This is better, he thinks, as he slips from Jim’s grasp along the wall. The room is nearly pitch black, his office on the yacht only having one window, and the city’s skyline is far enough from the dock that it provides only enough light to cast silhouettes. Oswald doesn’t have to think about it now, can let himself enjoy Jim’s touch without worrying over what his eyes might see.

He pretends it’s a game.

“Marco,” he calls softly, tone coy.

Jim chuckles, reaches for him and barely grazes Oswald’s shoulder. “Get back here, you little minx!” His husband growls, stumbling after him.

Oswald does laugh then, lets himself be caught and subsequently taken apart in the dark.

***

After that, Oswald employs his strategic ability to keep Jim’s eyes otherwise occupied during sex. He introduces blindfolds more often whenever Jim asks for a scene, sets the dimmer for the overhead lighting in their bedroom to near its lowest setting every day as a precaution. Doesn’t say anything when Jim turns it back up on his way to the bathroom, simply resets it when he leaves in the morning. Oswald blames it on their cleaning service.

He avoids Jim on the few occasions he stops by the casino, claims he’s on the way to a meeting or expecting an investor at any minute. Jim sweetly accepts all of it, kisses Oswald deeply enough that it motivates him to work all the harder on his, admittedly light, exercise regimen. He only has time for so many thirty-minute sessions, and his ankle requires frequent stops during his evening strolls. Lunges, squats, and pushups are out of the question entirely. Mostly, he does crunches after Jim leaves in the morning, and walks laps around the open deck of the casino in the afternoon before it opens.

He knows it isn’t enough.

Especially since food is the greater challenge. Oswald didn’t realize it was possible to be addicted to sugar, but he’d wager his good leg that he is physically addicted to pastry. It is like muscle memory, stopping by the catered table at the entrance to his office and snatching up a cheese Danish. It’s halfway devoured before Oswald remembers he’s supposed to be abstaining. He has the table restocked entirely, orders it replaced with a veggie tray and water bottles.

He acquires a fresh hatred of broccoli in its dry, raw form, constantly picking it from his teeth.

On the occasions Oswald meets Jim for dinner, he orders the leanest options on the menu. Typically, it’s either salad or some kind of chicken or baked fish. In short, after just two weeks, he is miserable and starving and watching Jim eat his medium rare steak and loaded baked potato is torturous. It doesn’t help that Jim has the bad habit of making those tiny little hums of appreciation whenever something tastes really good. Usually, Oswald is the same, but he hasn’t eaten anything lately worthy of such appreciation. Least of all, this dreadful pile of lettuce.

Rationally, he knows the house salad with dried cranberries, blue cheese crumble and walnuts is quite good. It just isn’t steak, which is what Oswald would normally choose here and, indeed, Jim had side-eyed him a little when he placed his order. His stomach pangs fitfully before Oswald finally stops pushing the lettuce around and takes a bite of his lackluster dinner. He resigns himself to his meal, tries not to be overly distracted by watching Jim eat, especially now he’s shaved the mustache. It’s almost obscene, watching him chew behind bare lips.

Clearly, he’s unsuccessful as Jim eventually offers him a bite of his dry-aged Kobe filet. Oswald smiles politely and shakes his head, careful to keep his eyes on his own food after that. When the waitress takes up their plates, Oswald is unspeakably relieved. That is, until instead of the bill she brings by the dessert menu. Jim is ordering for them before Oswald has the opportunity to so much as open his mouth to decline.

Now he’s going to have sit through Jim eating the Crème Brule they usually share because Oswald definitely can’t have any. It isn’t Jim’s fault, Oswald knows this, but he is already irritable, and these obstacles just keep materializing making it increasingly difficult to abstain. It doesn’t matter that Jim has no idea how hard Oswald is working for him, the Crème Brule is more than he can presently endure.

So, when Jim holds out a spoonful toward him, in an attempt to feed him—as if Oswald needs any help getting fatter—he loses his composure. He only means to nudge it away from his mouth, but his lack of patience makes him hasty. Oswald ends up irritably swatting the spoon away, sending it careening from Jim’s loose grasp onto the floor. Jim stares at him, brows knit with offended bewilderment.

Mortified, Oswald pushes his seat back and rises to leave as the waitress rushes over. “My apologies, James,” Oswald says, trying not to sound callous, though he isn’t sure he succeeds, “but it’s past time I returned to the office. I’ll see you at home.”

Jim’s wide blue eyes blink up at him from where he has crouched to assist with the mess. Something hurt lurks in his gaze and Oswald can’t bear that he’s the one who put it there. He isn’t prepared to fix this, so he turns on his heel and retreats, feeling very much like there should be a tail tucked between his legs. His eyes are stinging by the time he makes it back through the entrance of the bistro. Jim drove his own car, and so Oswald spares no time climbing into the black sedan when his driver pulls around.

As they pull away, he sees Jim burst out onto the sidewalk. Oswald can’t see his face, but the disappointed slump in his posture as he catches sight of Oswald’s departing car speaks volumes.

How is it, in his effort to keep Jim happy, Oswald has managed to hurt him instead?

***

It’s all for naught.

The following Monday, Oswald weighs himself on the bathroom scale. He’s not eating red meat, or Danishes or any number of the other things he enjoys. Oswald is exercising more, and having way less sex especially now that Jim is suddenly overwhelmed at work, and yet he’s managed to gain a pound? He may or may not smash the toothbrush holder by throwing it against the far wall of the bathroom.

It doesn’t matter. There’s no one home to witness his slip.  

As the week wears on, and Oswald redoubles his efforts to effectively starve himself, Jim’s absence becomes all the more regular. Jim doesn’t show up at the casino even once, wakes up so early in the morning now that Oswald doesn’t stir except when Jim kisses him chastely on the forehead and says goodbye. It’s the only intimacy Oswald gets after his fit at the restaurant, which they don’t talk about. At least, Jim never asks, though they still manage to meet for dinner a couple times.

Conversation, however, is stilted as Oswald continues to order his salads and Jim regards him warily. It’s almost as if Jim is…afraid to bring it up. This is, perhaps, the most unsettling thought because in all of their time spent together, even as rivals, Jim has never been afraid of Oswald. He wonders, briefly, if he remembers the incident incorrectly. If, perhaps, instead of hitting the spoon, he’d accidentally struck Jim. He doesn’t think he did; even if he had, it couldn’t have been hard enough to make Jim afraid.

Surely, Jim knows Oswald would never…

Unable to cast aside this sudden unease, Oswald retrieves his phone. He sends Jim a text to see if he will be stopping by the yacht on his way home. Oswald hopes that his husband will understand the question for what it is: an invitation.

Jim responds: _Can’t. Double homicide in the Narrows. Looks like Joker._

Oswald squints, walks out of his office and onto the balcony which oversees the game room below. Jeremiah is at the black jack table, Harley at his side, probably counting cards, where he has been all afternoon. Oswald rolls his eyes ruefully. He’s grown quite fond of Jeremiah over the years, despite their rocky introduction and some of the man’s more extreme political views.

He isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty, and Oswald appreciates his strategic ability when they collaborate. Granted, the man is often hard to read—definitely a bit of a wild card—but he’s never betrayed Oswald when the chips were down, and so Oswald lets him have the run of the place—when the press isn’t sniffing around, of course. Jeremiah catches his gaze after a moment, and they exchange a friendly nod of greeting before the man returns his attention to his flustered dealer. Oswald makes a note to have a chat with him about harassing the staff. Again.

Oswald texts Jim: _It’s not the Joker._

Jim doesn’t respond. Typical. He’s officially being avoided.

While he doesn’t doubt there was a double homicide in the Narrows—Lee never did manage to cure its inhabitants of their desperation—he would wager that Captain Gordon is not the one investigating the case. Jim would assign this to his detectives or, if it were the Joker, signal the Batman. No, if he were to make a guess, Oswald would bet his entire life’s savings that Jim will be leaving the station on time this evening.

Incensed, even though he has no right to be, Oswald decides he is going to beat Jim home. If only to prove his theory. Also, to apologize for his horrid behavior at dinner last week. Maybe if Oswald apologizes nicely they can spend the rest of the evening cuddled up in bed.

Oswald snorts, if only the press could read his mind, they’d lose all respect for him as the alleged ‘criminal mastermind’ of Gotham’s underworld. He has a certain reputation for ruthless ambition, a quality local reporters claim is overlooked by Captain Gordon, who works so hard to clean up the city only to be undermined by his ‘blind love of the Penguin.’

It’s all quite tragically romantic, according to the tabloids. He and Jim often snigger over their headlines on the occasions Oswald rises early enough to join him for breakfast. Those so-called journalists haven’t the slightest clue how often Oswald cooperates with their beloved Captain to eliminate the real threats within this city. They certainly would never suspect that, right now, it’s the notorious Penguin who is desperate for the good Captain’s affection.

It’s been a horrid three weeks, made all the more disappointing by how he not only didn’t lose any weight but somehow managed to gain a pound. Not to mention alienating the one person he can’t live without. If Oswald has to choose between fitting into his lingerie again and his husband, he’d happily burn every stitch. He just has to figure out a dignified way to recount his struggle to Jim and hope that he isn’t too disappointed. Oswald isn’t the only one who enjoys his collection after all.

Oswald’s nose stings as he recalls squeezing into that ill-fitting camisole and pantie set. He sees himself look up at his reflection in the mirror, only to have his imagination conjure up an image of Jim staring back at him. His expression is openly disgusted as he appraises Oswald’s bloated figure, and he cringes under the scrutiny, his every flaw noted and rejected. Oswald shakes his head to physically ground himself back in reality, sniffs as he rubs his eyes.

_Stop it._

_Stop it, stop it, stop it._

He doesn’t even care about catching Jim in a lie. He just wants to go home. Oswald rings his driver and tells him to bring the car around.  

***

Rush hour traffic is not conducive to his plans to get home first, however, it does prove that Jim was positively lying. His husband’s car is already parked in the driveway when he arrives, the hood of the old Lincoln cold to the touch. Oswald furrows his brow, sighing dejectedly as he trudges up the stairs. Jim didn’t want to stop by this evening, and so he lied to get out of it. Oswald can’t remember if there’s ever been a time when they’ve been so out of tune. It’s his own fault. He should have…

What?

How is he supposed to talk about this with Jim?  What’s he supposed to say: ‘Oh, hey honey, remember that time you made me fly a blimp? Well, now I am one! Isn’t it just the sexiest?’

Just the prospect of talking about his failed efforts to trim a few pounds is upsetting to the point of tears. He has to pause when his hand is on the knob to swallow back the lump in his throat. Maybe that’s what stings so much about this entire endeavor. The fact that he failed so miserably at this one thing he should definitely be able to control. It’s his own body, after all. And now it too has betrayed him.

He can’t go through with this, he decides, as one rebellious tear manages to escape. Oswald has made it back down to the second step, halfway through a text to his driver, when he hears the door pull open behind him.

“Oswald?” Jim’s voice is soft, tentative as he brings Oswald up short. “Aren’t you coming inside? I’m making dinner.”

He isn’t sure how it’s possible, but Oswald’s shoulders slump even further. “I…I’m not hungry, but thank you, Jim.”

Jim’s exhale is long and exasperated. His tone, when he speaks, is reminiscent of the one he uses to threaten criminals. Oswald would know.  “Get in the house. We need to talk.”

He bristles at the curt demand, which is apparently all he needs to pull himself back together. He rounds on Jim with a frown. “Oh? Are we going to discuss that double homicide in the Narrows, then?”

Jim’s lips twitch, his eyes twinkling before he winks. “You betchya.”

Oswald blinks owlishly, bewildered by this mercurial demeanor, as Jim takes his hand and leads him back up the stairs and into the foyer. Oswald is relieved of his hat and jacket, then guided into the dining room where Jim has apparently been very busy indeed.

The table is set neatly with the expensive china from the dining room display alongside two empty wine glasses and a set of unlit candles as the centerpiece. Jim courteously holds Oswald’s usual chair, waits patiently until he bemusedly obliges. Jim pulls out the seat just to Oswald’s left, and turns it so it’s facing Oswald himself before he plops down into it.

He turns to Jim, confused. “What on earth are you doing?”

“We’re talking,” Jim replies easily.

Oswald averts his gaze, then, back to the tidy place setting Jim has carefully prepared. He feels naked under Jim’s appraisal, cheeks stinging with the heat of his discomfort. Jim scoots his chair so close that his knees bracket the edges of Oswald’s own. He reaches over and takes one of Oswald’s and cradles it between his warm palms where he plays absently with Oswald’s wedding ring.

“Alright?”

Oswald ignores his inexplicably pounding heart as he nods tightly. He doesn’t understand why he’s so tense, but there’s something about Jim’s demeanor that makes him feel hunted.

Jim draws in a breath, his tone quiet and sincere as he says, “Everything I am is yours.”

The words catch him off guard, shock Oswald into complete stillness as goosebumps prickle along his arms. Whatever he was expecting Jim to say, this is not it.

“And everything you are,” Jim continues, “is all I’ll ever want, everything I need.”

Jim ducks his head then, finds Oswald’s stricken gaze. “I’ve never asked you to change for me,” Jim asserts, correctly, before declaring, “and there’s nothing about you I ever would.”

 Oswald was barely winning the battle with his emotions, has been struggling to contain himself since Jim began reciting those lines from his wedding vows all those years ago. His husband’s final insightful declaration proves too much in the end, and Oswald turns toward him fully to throw his arms around Jim’s neck and sob pathetically. Jim holds him through it, quietly rubs his back, all too accustomed to Oswald’s emotional outbursts.

“How did you know?” Oswald asks, voice muffled by Jim’s shoulder, when he calms down enough to form intelligible words.

He can hear the smile in Jim’s voice when he replies, “Detective, remember? I thought I’d give you time to come around, but you keep turning off all the lights, blindfolding me when you can’t, you don’t let me see you at work and suddenly you hate cheeseburgers and love baked salmon? Honey, you aren’t subtle.”

Oswald sniffs. Figures.

“You want to tell me why your weight is bothering you now, all of a sudden?” Jim carefully asks, tone gentle as he squeezes Oswald affectionately. “You had your suits tailored a few months back, and you didn’t seem self-conscious about it then.”

Oswald sighs, pushes himself out of Jim’s embrace so he’s sitting up straight in his chair again. “None of my nice things fit anymore.” He sniffs, rubbing the remaining tears from his eyes as he sulkily declares, “I look like duct taped Jell-O.” 

Jim snorts. “Please don’t use colorful adjectives while I’m trying to be supportive.”

Oswald giggles despite himself. “It’s true though,” he laments. “I was already in the largest size available in my catalogues.”

“So, shop somewhere else,” Jim states with a shrug.

“Where?” Oswald demands with no small amount of vexation. “The bedding aisle at Wal-Mart? At this rate, all I’ll be able to fit are togas.”

“What do you mean, at this rate?”

Oswald huffs, tells Jim about the exercise, and the dieting, apologizes for how upset he got at the restaurant as he explains his failures. “I gained a pound!” He finally exclaims. “How the hell is that even possible, Jim? I’m starving my ass off!”

“Are you worried about your health?” Jim asks.

“Not really,” Oswald admits, exhausted. “I feel fine, but…Shouldn’t I have at least lost a little bit?”

“Well,” Jim begins, drawing out the consonant, “maybe we should both go in for a check-up. Couldn’t hurt, right?”

Oswald shrugs, hums. The idea has merit, much as Oswald loathes doctors.

“Just...” Jim nudges him with his knee. “Don’t change anything because you think it’s what I want. Don’t hide from me in the dark or on the other side of a blindfold, because you think I don’t want to see you.”

Jim leans forward, pulls Oswald into a kiss. It strikes him then.

“Jim?” he asks when they part, “Why’d you shave your mustache?”

Jim has the decency to look bashful before he confesses, “It took me a while to piece it together, okay?”

Oswald chuckles.

“You kept turning all the lights off,” Jim argues. “Hell, you offered to shave it off at least once a week.”

“It was far more than that,” Oswald recalls, grinning shamelessly.

“You hated it.”

“Yes.” Oswald nods. “Yes, I did.”

“I’m not thirty-six anymore, either, you know,” Jim points out before loosing a rueful huff. “We make quite the pair, huh?”

“I’ve always thought so,” Oswald replies proudly. 

Jim pushes his chair back and climbs to his feet. “Why don’t you go upstairs, take a hot bath and put on something comfortable? I thought you’d hold out for at least another hour; I still gotta finish dinner.”

Oswald narrows his eyes at that. “Jim?”

“Hmm?”

“How did you know I would come home early?”

Jim smiles at him mischievously. “I didn’t. I just…planted a seed and hoped it would grow.”

Oswald gapes at his husband’s impressive manipulation. “I’ve created a monster.”

“Go wash up.” Jim chuckles. “I’m making steaks,” he adds, winking before turning on his heel and disappearing into the kitchen.

Oswald does as he’s bid. A nice, long bath sounds divine; almost as divine as Jim’s promised entree.

As he climbs the stairs to their bedroom, Oswald feels lighter than he has in months. He realizes, in hindsight, that perhaps he’s been trying to solve a problem that doesn’t exist. Yes, he’s gained weight, and Jim wasn’t unaware he just didn’t care. Which is just…

He’s so preoccupied with his thoughts—the sheer relief Jim has given him—that he almost misses it; the smallest blur of pink in his peripheral as Oswald passes the bed, just noticeable enough to stop him mid-stride. He retraces his steps and goes back around to his side of the bed. What he finds makes Oswald want to run back down those stairs and immediately beg Jim to marry him all over again.

Oswald doesn’t know where he found it, can’t fathom how Jim not only discerned Oswald’s anxiety over his weight but then also found a way to root out the heart of his upset. He’s pieced it all together on his own, and now there’s a beautiful, full-length pastel pink night gown lying over Oswald’s side of the mattress.

It’s another unisex design, with long sleeves and a v-neck that reaches low, but not so much so that it would look odd on someone without cleavage. The fabric is some combination of lace and elastic, sheer in the parts that are visible between the swirling patterns of its embroidery.

Beside the [gown](https://www.johnniescloset.com.au/full-length-long-sleeve-gown-pink/his-hers-lingerie/robes-pjs/) is a coordinating pair of pink, lace bikini [panties](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B071778YVC/ref=cm_sw_r_oth_api_9BbqBbEX2CRE8). They have a boy-leg cut, and a silky lining inside the pouch at the front. They’re designed to be sexy as well as comfortable, and Oswald is excited about wearing them along with the gown, but he needs to sit down. He’s just…a little overwhelmed.

Ten years, he’s been married to Jim and Oswald still can’t fathom his own good fortune. His fingers trace over the pattern on the nightgown with a reverence that has nothing at all to do with the garment itself and everything to do with the intention and consideration he knows went into its careful selection. He isn’t sure what he can possibly do to convey his appreciation, not for the gift so much as the giver.

It isn’t a question of what he can exchange to even the playing field, rather a need to make sure Jim feels equally cherished. Their love isn’t a game, after all, and there’s never been that kind of expectation between them but this…

It means more than Oswald has words to express. He shouldn’t be so surprised, whatever Jim has lacked in words through the years, he’s always made up for in heartfelt gestures. He is a man of action, above all.  Oswald draws in a long, soothing breath before pushing off the mattress and collecting his gifts. There will come a time when Jim struggles, and Oswald will be there to see him through it.

That, more than anything else, Oswald has found, is the true nature of love.

***

Later, he is greeted by a low whistle when he rejoins Jim in the dining room. He’s fresh from his bath, wearing the gown and panties under an open [robe](https://kimandono.com/products/kimono-robe-peacock-feather-long?variant=38763770883&gclid=Cj0KCQjwpvzZBRCbARIsACe8vyIPVCU7wHDNX-SaV7PVtbskLwdAgscSjHy5pOlQv7zsGs0BCGGNvQYaAn-OEALw_wcB). Dinner is laid out on the table—steak, sautéed green beans and roasted potatoes—along with a bottle of red. Oswald is suddenly famished, made all the more intense by how deprived he’s felt the past few weeks.

His husband pulls his chair out, patiently waiting for Oswald to cross the room, but Oswald ignores the seat in favor of grabbing Jim by his lapels and yanking him into a kiss. He means the press of his lips to be sweetly appreciative, but it seems so long since they last made love that it quickly turns heated. Oswald takes advantage of Jim’s surprise, licks into his mouth with a groan as he slides his hands up and around the back of Jim’s neck.

His husband is shocked for only a few moments, and then he is clutching Oswald just as desperately. His hands slide into his open robe, trail around Oswald’s waist and down to grab fistfuls of his scantily-clad ass. Oswald is tempted to push Jim down onto the table and ruin his lovely spread, but his stomach growls painfully as if in protest of the very thought. Jim retreats from their embrace with a quiet chuckle and a final peck to Oswald’s lips.

“Come on,” he says, gesturing to Oswald’s seat, “let’s dig in before it gets cold.”

Oswald obliges this time, and when they are finally seated across from one another, he meets Jim’s eyes over the lit candles between them. “Thank you, Jim.”

“What are husbands for?” Jim replies dismissively.

Oswald fixes him with a flat look. “James.”

Jim sighs. “You don’t have to thank me, Oz. I like seeing you happy.” His eyes track down to Oswald’s neck and chest before rising back to his face. Oswald can feel his face heat, thinking of all the times Jim’s given him that look even well before they ever got together. Before Oswald knew what that little once-over meant; back when he still believed Jim could never return his feelings.

“I also like seeing you walk around half-naked,” his husband adds, with a lecherous grin as he pours their wine.

“James Gordon,” Oswald says, affecting a scandalized tone as he takes up his glass, “whatever would the children think?”

“It’s not my fault they got a hot mama,” Jim replies.

“How much of this did you drink while fixing dinner?” Oswald scoffs, playfully. “Also, why am I the mother in this scenario?”

“You’re prettier than I am,” Jim immediately responds with a smug grin.

Cheeks burning, Oswald ducks his head, lips curled into an untamed smile. He rests his chin in a hand he props onto the table in an effort to hide how much Jim’s words please him. “Shut-up,” he mumbles, before taking a generous sip of his wine.

They eat their meal in companionable silence, Oswald groaning at the first taste of each dish. Jim spent the time during his last suspension taking cooking classes, and Oswald has never been more grateful to their idiot commissioner for facilitating it. Steaks are his specialty, and this one has been prepared with an asiago and truffle crust.

“You sure you don’t want to give up your day job and run the kitchen at the casino?” Oswald asks cheekily.

Jim glares good-naturedly. “Shameless.”

“So, I’m told,” Oswald responds, wiping the corner of his mouth, “by the Batman himself.”

“You funded a heist.”

“Allegedly,” Oswald defends. “Those claims are entirely unfounded in reality.”

Jim snorts. “Your version of it.”

“No need to get in a huff, darling,” Oswald teases. “I can’t walk around half naked for you if I’m in prison, after all.”

Jim sighs, rueful as he throws his hands up. “What am I gonna do with you?”

“Take me to bed?”

***

Jim does exactly that. The plates get left on the table, though they don’t leave the table in a rush or race each other up the stairs. Jim guides Oswald through the manor with a patient arm around his waist instead, pressing kisses into his temple as they ascend the staircase. They’ve talked about having an elevator installed, but Oswald dithers over whether his father would’ve approved of changing his family home. Oswald will cross that bridge when it’s necessary.

For now, his ankle doesn’t twinge overly much, and he enjoys leaning on Jim as they climb them together. When they finally arrive at the bedroom, Jim sits Oswald down on his side of the bed and peels himself from his layers. They don’t waste time on foreplay, both of them far too deprived this past week to spare much patience for it.

Instead, Oswald divests himself of his robe and panties, leaving the gown on, before he lays himself down and rolls onto his stomach. Jim climbs in behind him, lips finding the back of Oswald’s neck as he leisurely slides the hem of his gown up Oswald’s thighs, until it’s just over his hips. Jim’s touch is tantalizingly slow, as if savoring every slip of skin.

The way his fingers press into his flesh, just on the edge of needy, makes Oswald feel wanted, undeniably desirable. He forgets to feel self-conscious while Jim grinds wantonly against him, groans his name against his skin. He gives no thought to how he might look in the light, wants only for Jim to be closer as he bends his good knee, sliding his leg up the mattress so that it’s lined up with his hip. He arches so that his ass is on eager display, inviting Jim into the space he’s created.

His husband doesn’t hesitate, slick fingers finding Oswald’s entrance and stretching him open with practiced finesse. Oswald is a fan of this position, though it makes it difficult to see and touch Jim the way he wants. The benefit, however, is that when Jim finally pushes inside him, every inch of him is blanketed by Jim’s familiar weight and heat.

When people talk about sex being an embrace, this is what they mean, Oswald is sure. If it weren’t for the slow, measured rock of Jim’s hips as he expertly strokes himself over and over against the tight furl of Oswald’s rim and the sensitive gland beyond, it would be a perfect imitation of how they normally sleep, cuddled together.

That thought gives Oswald another as he takes himself in hand. “Jim…?”

“I’m here, baby,” Jim whispers right behind his ear, fingers squeezing Oswald’s hip in reassurance where he’s using it for leverage. “I’ve got you.”

Oswald feels a fond smile stretch over his lips as he does his best to push back, and up into Jim’s thrusts. “Want to fall asleep with you inside me.”

“Mmm.” Jim hums, pushing Oswald’s leg up slightly higher, delving just that much deeper. “Gonna keep my cock nice and warm for me?”

Oswald nods, lips parted around the shape of his softly issued groans as he climbs higher and higher.

“Let me get you nice and wet,” Jim whispers filthily, thrusts growing desperate, “so I can wake up inside you and fuck you all over again. Mess you up real good.”

“Fuck—” Oswald trembles as his climax shakes through him without preamble. Jim bites his ear when his spine tightens, keeps him from thrashing his head back too far as Jim fucks him through it. He feels the pulse of Jim’s shaft when he finally comes, the clench of his fingers as they dig into the meat of his hip.

When they’ve come down from the post-coital haze, Oswald groans. “I got come on my gown.”

Jim kisses the back of his head, pulls away despite their earlier lust-addled fantasy. His husband doesn’t go far, however, just to the bathroom and back. He tosses Oswald a warm, damp towel before pulling open the doors of his armoire.

“You didn’t check the dresser, huh?” he says as Oswald looks on in stunned disbelief.

Jim didn’t just buy him one replacement gown—he bought Oswald an entire new collection. He watches, mystified, as Jim pulls another gown off its hanger, this one short and black. He brings it with him as he climbs back onto the bed to help Oswald pull the other one up and off. Jim takes the towel from Oswald’s limp fingers and wipes up the mess on his stomach, attempts to at least clean the wet spot Oswald left off to the side before tossing the towel over the other edge of the bed.

Jim helps him into the second gown, also comprised of soft embroidered swirls of lace and elastic. It frills a little at the hem and its straps are actually ties that go behind his neck. The [result](https://www.johnniescloset.com.au/stretch-lace-mini-dress-babydoll-for-boys-and-girls-black/lingerie/babydolls/) is a swooping neckline and bare shoulders. Jim plants a kiss on one, before he settles onto his side.

Oswald finally manages to summon his words. “There are times, Jim, when I struggle to believe you’re real.”

Jim regards him with soft, empathetic eyes. “You deserve nice things, Oz. You deserve to be happy.”

“I deserve to be in prison,” Oswald insists. “I definitely don’t deserve you.”

Jim sighs, pats the empty space in front of him. “Come here.”

Oswald acquiesces solemnly, lets Jim wind an arm around his middle and pull him close. Their legs sprawl together, as Oswald settles with his back against Jim’s front.

“What about me?” Jim asks, fingers slipping down along Oswald’s spine. “What do I deserve?”

Oswald swallows. “You deserve everything, anything you want.”

“And do you know what I want most in the world?” he asks then.

“No,” Oswald replies, because he doesn’t. Not really. Maybe it’s Gotham to finally be as safe as the second most violent city in the country. Or, for their children to be healthy and happy—that seems like a very Jim thing to want. Oswald wants that too, of course.

His internal guessing-game is interrupted when Jim finally enlightens him. “What I want, I’m already doing. I’m spending the rest of my life with the one person in the world who understands me, loves me without condition, who makes me feel like the smallest gesture is the greatest treasure.

“You deserve everything I give you, Oz, because you give me nothing less.”

“I remember a time when you weren’t so eloquent,” Oswald replies, warmed by the sincerity of Jim’s words.

“I do too,” Jim replies, chagrined. “Unfortunately.”

Oswald hums contentedly, before Jim slips his fingers into the cleft of his ass to massage his entrance. He sucks in a breath when they breech, eyes rolling back.

“I liked your suggestion,” Jim explains.

Oswald, suddenly struggling for breath at the way his cock twinges, though there’s no way he’s capable of another erection this quickly, responds by reaching back to hold himself open.

They both groan when Jim nudges the softened head of his cock past the loosened rim of Oswald’s hole. They writhe together for a moment, a futile imitation of fucking before they’re able to settle once more.

“Fuck, you drive me crazy,” Jim whispers, hands restlessly running the length if Oswald’s flank.

Oswald grins happily. He’s confident it’s the truth when he replies, “You love it.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you again to the wonderful, incredibly talented DeathtoOTPin123 (https://deathbyotpin123.tumblr.com/) for the wonderful art at the end of this entry. I can't believe you did one, let alone two. <3 <3 <3


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